


The Direwolf and the Sandfox

by lisa_london



Series: The Stag and The Frog [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Dorne, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, One Shot, POV Sansa Stark, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Princes & Princesses, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sharing a Bed, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisa_london/pseuds/lisa_london
Summary: Queen Sansa Stark has sworn to never let a man close again. Because men have only brought her pain and sorrow. They have used her, hurt her, and betrayed her.Prince Quentyn Martell has lost whatever power he had. Imprisoned by the woman who killed his father and brother, his only remaining resource is his pretty looks.As part of a political arrangement, Quentyn is given to Sansa in marriage. He will be her consort, but he won’t share her bed.But the icy northern queen might not be totally frozen inside, one day she will perhaps give in to her fiery husband from a southern shore.
Relationships: Quentyn Martell/Sansa Stark
Series: The Stag and The Frog [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880818
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	1. A pretty prince

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the universe of The Stag and The Frog but works without that context. This is a post-show universe (with added details from the books) where everything that happened in the show is canon, so Sansa is the Queen of the North.
> 
> At the start of this scene, Sansa Stark is married to Quentyn Martell as part of a political deal with Ellaria Sand (who is in this universe ruling Dorne. It is simply a political marriage and she has no intention to ever be affectionate with him.
> 
> Quentyn Martell is in The Stag and The Frog used as the Dornish Prince seen at the council in the finale of the show. He was the most appropriate character for that role in my mind since he's not dead in the show (and could still exist). He is soon after the council usurped as Dorne's ruler by Ellaria who crawls out of the ruins of King's Landing. Since we never see Quentyn in the show I took some creative liberties with his personality and looks. So he's basically a chill Dornish surfer boy in this story.
> 
> This story is written as a collection of one-shots that explores Sansa's and Quentyn's relationship, rather than a huge overarching story. I will update it with irregular intervals when I got new chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Quentyn sleep apart but a snowstorm brings him into her room. She helps him get warm and eventually invites him into her bed. She wakes up to the realization that she doesn't mind his presence there.

When a princess is pretty she gets married off to a king in a foreign land, traded like goods, in the name of status and lust.

Quentyn was not a princess. But his beauty had still brought him to a remote Northern coast where he was paraded by his wife, Queen Sansa of the North, as a trophy. Sometimes he overheard her bragging, during long banquets, about how her husband, the Dornish prince, performed like a stallion in the bedroom. She went on about her consort’s pretty dark curls, chiseled muscles, and sexual stamina.

Of course, it was all an act. Sansa had no clue about his sexual stamina since they had never shared the marital bed. It was a well-guarded secret that he actually slept in the dressing room adjacent to her bedroom. Each night they walked into the master bedroom together. And each night he immediately continued to the small room next door.

This night was no different.

They played their parts in front of the crowd in the Great Hall of Winterfell, before going their separate ways in the bedroom. No sweet words or gentle touches to say good night. Just a nod and a mutual understanding of the conditions of their marriage.

Quentyn wished it was different. He wished he would be allowed to show his wife affection. But any attempt was always declined with a cold stare.

As Quentyn lay in his bed he could hear the wind roaring outside. Louder and louder. A storm was approaching. Even in spring the North still had regular snowstorms where wind and snow pelted the residents of the frozen plains.

Cracks and taps were heard as the northern weather battered the small window. As if the cold wanted to come inside and play.

Snow scared Quentyn. He felt like it would bury him alive in its cold embrace.

He missed the sandy dunes and sunshine of his homelands. Every day he sat outside in the gardens of Winterfell trying to catch a few rays of sunshine. But darkness fell early in the North.

BANG!

The window above the bed burst open. Snow poured in over Quentyn and cold air filled the room.

He jumped up, terrified and covered in snow. It kept pouring in through the window, almost like an avalanche. It must be sliding down from the roof above.

In only his underwear the poor prince fled into his wife’s bedroom. Panting. Freezing.

His arrival must have awoken Sansa because Quentyn saw her sitting in the bed. Her red hair glowed in the remaining light from dying flames in the fireplace.

“Quentyn, what are you doing?” she exclaimed sharply. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

When she noticed the snow blowing in behind him her face softened slightly.

“I…” His teeth chattered too much for him to speak properly. He fell down on the floor shivering. “The snow. I’m freezing.”

Then there was warmth. A thick fur put over his shoulders. Quentyn looked up to see his wife kneeling in front of him.

“Let’s get you warm,” she said and got up to close the door to prevent more snow from streaming in.

She led him to the fireplace and wrapped him in blankets, creating a cocoon around him. Quentyn held his hands out in front of him and breathed hot air to try to warm them, while his wife put some wood on the fire.

Two hands enveloped his, rubbing them to get the circulation going. It felt nice. He looked up and met his wife’s eyes.

“You really look pathetic, husband,” she said, a slight smile on her lips.

It was the first time he had seen his wife smile. She had a beautiful smile.

“You never call me husband,” he said, curious about the sudden change in address.

“I suppose I don’t,” she replied, her words trailing off.

“I didn’t know snow could attack,” he said and smiled at her in an attempt to suss out whether she was actually warming up to him. Or if the cold had just made him delirious. “You should have warned me, my wife.”

Quentyn tried out those words to see how she would react. They felt odd in his mouth.

“Me neither,” she replied. “I forget that you’re not used to snow, dear husband.”

There it was again. Husband. Paired with “dear” this time. It must mean something. The thought scared him slightly.

“Let me just warm for a bit by the fire,” he said. “Then I can leave. I’ll get some servants to clean out the snow from my room and fix the window.”

“I don’t think they can fix that tonight.”

“Then I can sleep in another room of the castle tonight and they’ll fix it tomorrow.”

Sansa looked down for a moment. Her gaze went to his naked chest in front of her; she seemed scared and curious at the same time.

“You could sleep here…” she said hesitantly.

Quentyn waited for her to take the words back, to recant the statement. But she didn’t.

“If you are all right with that,” he said gently. “Then I wouldn’t mind.”

A long silence followed where neither of them knew what to say or do.

Then Sansa moved. She pulled the covers off the bed and crawled in under them, and she signaled for her husband to follow. Quentyn slowly shed the blankets wrapped around him and obliged his wife’s command.

The sheets were cold under him at first. But the bed smelled nice. Like lily of the valley and early spring sunlight.

His teeth started chattering again. He couldn’t stop it.

But it stopped when his wife embraced him and held him close. Sansa wore a nightgown but he could still feel her warmth through it. The shock and delight made him stop freezing.

Quentyn didn’t move. He didn’t dare. He didn’t know what other men had done to his wife but he was certain that if he moved he would spook her. And he didn’t want her to be scared. He didn’t want her to move away. He didn’t want this to end.

So they lay there, close together. Eventually, they fell asleep.

***

Soft snores. A foreign fragrance of spicy Dornish perfume. Warmth from another body.

Fo the first time in her life, Sansa woke up next to a man. Her first husband Tyrion hadn’t dared to share her bed and her second husband Ramsay had just taken what he wanted from her and then left.

She looked upon the man who lay next to her. Dark locks hung down over his face. His skin was still tanned from Dornish sunlight. His muscles were lean and wiry.

Her husband reminded her of who she used to be. Before everything. A girl who dreamt of lemon cakes, beautiful dresses, and dazzling princes.

Now she was married to a dazzling prince. But she refused to let him close. Because closeness to men had only brought her pain.

The mere of thought sharing her bed with a man had scared her. But as Sansa looked at her husband she didn’t feel fear. Instead, she felt an urge to keep him warm. To shield him from the harsh northern conditions.

So she didn’t move away from him. Instead, she moved closer. She nestled in between his arms. Her face positioned opposite of his. Their noses almost touched.

Her hand stretched out to touch him. She stroked his hair and his cheek. His hair was thick and shiny, while his cheek was rough from beard stubble. As her hand continued down his neck he opened his eyes. Warm amber eyes looking into hers. There was no intention to hurt in those eyes.

Her body wanted to flee. But she resisted because her heart didn’t want to. She wanted to stay.

“Good morning, my husband,” she said.

Quentyn looked like he wasn’t sure where he was at first. Perhaps startled by her close proximity. But soon he smiled back at her.

“Good morning, my wife,” he replied.

And from that morning onward they called each other husband and wife.


	2. Like lemon cakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is bored at a council meeting. Decides to take a break and finds her husband outside. They talk and eventually kiss.

The meeting seemed to never end. Sansa had spent all morning in discussion with her advisors regarding tax rates, food storage, and border enforcement. All important issues, but also boring issues. 

As the meeting went into its fifth hour she looked out the window, towards the garden. She could see her husband out there. As always trying to catch whatever rays of sunshine that were available in the North. Quentyn looked lonely out there.

A longing in her chest surprised her. A longing to be out there with him. A longing to not be burdened by the weight of the kingdom. A longing to just be a girl again. Not a queen.

She tried to ignore it. Because longing for things only caused you heartbreak and disappointment. She had stopped longing for things long ago. When Ramsay Bolton took everything. Her body. Her innocence. Her hopes and dreams. 

But Ramsay was dead. She killed him. He couldn’t take anything more from her.

“Let’s take a break,” she said to her surprised advisors. “We’ve been here long enough. I think we all need some fresh air before we reconvene.”

Before any of them could object, Sansa got up from the table and walked out of the hall. She was the queen after all; they couldn’t tell her what to do.

***  
Small green bulbs had started to sprout on the bare branches of the trees. In the flowerbeds snowdrops and crocuses grew. Little dots of white, blue, and yellow on the frozen ground.

Even in these Northern lands, there were signs of spring arriving.

Quentyn sat on a bench in the garden when his wife approached him. The sight of her surprised him. Sansa was always too busy to come out here.

Early spring winds caught her red hair as she walked the path towards him. He caught a smile on her lips as she tried to tame it. She wore one of her usual high-necked wool dresses, this one in a greyish blue, coupled with a white fur cape.

“Aren’t you a bit overdressed for this sunny weather, husband?” Sansa asked as she sat down next to him and looked at his attire.

Quentyn had thrown on the warmest clothes he could find. Over his shoulders was a thick brown fur coat and on his hands were mittens in the same material. The servants had told him that someone named Tormund had left the clothes. Supposedly the attire was made from bearskin.

“At least I’m not freezing,” he said with a smile.

Although, maybe freezing wasn’t the worst thing since it had brought him into his wife’s bed. They had continued to share a bed after that night. Laying next to each and sometimes accidentally touching. Nothing more. But he enjoyed feeling the presence of her next to him.

“You certainly won’t,” she said and returned the smile while patting him lightly on the hood of his jacket, that he was pulled over his head. “Although I fear you might die of heatstroke…”

“I think I’ll survive to sweat a bit, dear wife,” he replied. “I grew up surrounded by desert sand and scorching sun.”

Her bare hand wandered down from Quentyn’s head towards his mitten-clad hand. She had never held his hand before but apparently the mittens made the prospect less scary.

“You know you could join us for the meetings if you like,” she said. “You don’t have to sit here alone.”

“That kind of stuff never interested me,” he replied. “And I’d rather not be stuck in a dark room all day.”

“You ruled Dorne for almost a year. Surely you sat in on meetings?”

“I did. But I didn’t enjoy them.”

“Why did you take the power, if you didn’t want it?”

“I didn’t. I was forced into it. I was the only one left after my father and brother died. I was only spared because I was a ward at Yronwood at the time. She couldn’t get to me.”

“Ellaria?”

He nodded. “She killed them.”

As the thought of them entered his mind he looked down on the ground. He wasn’t going to cry in front of her.

Quentyn’s father Doran had been an inattentive father, too busy to rule to care about his son, and his brother Trystane had been an arrogant and spoiled brat. But they had still been his family. And one day he would avenge them.

“But you’re here in her service,” his wife said with confusion in her voice.

He chuckled slightly. “I’m not serving her… I would never serve her.”

“You agreed to come here.”

“I never agreed to anything. I was locked in a prison cell for many months. Then the guards pulled me out of there one day and put me on a ship. I had no idea where I was going.”

“I didn’t know…” she said, her expression filled with horror. 

“I’m glad I’m here though,” he continued. “The North might be cold but at least I’m outside. I can feel the sun. I’m free. ”

As the clouds moved away from the sun, Quentyn pulled down the hood from his face, and let the rays hit his face.

He had wished for only two things when locked in that cell. To have the sun hit his skin again, and to not be alone. To have someone to talk to. To have someone touch him.

***  
Her husband suddenly looked different to Sansa, as the yellow light flooded over him. No longer a stranger, but a fellow victim of the game that never-ending game.

Quentyn had lost his family too. Just like her.

And now he had been traded away in marriage. Just like she had been once.

Sansa squeezed his hand lightly over the ridiculous mitten and he looked at her. She had never seen the pain in his eyes before. Warm amber eyes shaded by misery and suffering.

It seemed like he wanted to avert his eyes. Like he didn’t want her to see the pain. She wouldn’t let him.

“Sit still,” she whispered and slowly inched towards him.

Sansa Stark had never kissed anyone. Joffrey Baratheon had kissed her to charm and manipulate her. Petyr Baelish had kissed her to groom and sway her. Ramsay Bolton had kissed her to break and humiliate her. But she had never actually chosen to kiss any of them. It had never been on her terms.

This time it was. When she put her hands around Quentyn’s neck and pulled him closer it was because she wanted to. When she put her lips against his lips it was on her own volition.

Quentyn didn’t resist, but he also didn’t hunger for her. He didn’t take more than she wanted to give.

The softness of his lips surprised her. She had never felt softness like that in a man before.

He tasted sweet. Like lemon cakes.

Something inside of her changed as they kissed. A flood wave of emotions overwhelmed her; urges to do things she had long ago renounced.

She pulled her lips from his, quickly. Scared of what she felt. 

“I need to… get back to the meeting,” she said and got up from the bench.

“Wait,” she heard Quentyn call out behind her. But she was already gone.

Her steps were hurried as she walked away from the garden. But the emotions didn’t stay in the garden. They were in her chest, in her head, in her whole body.

She longed for the taste of lemon cakes again.


	3. Snow Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has snowed a lot. Quentyn is skeptical. Sansa convinces him to go out there. A snowball fight ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I accidently posted last chapter twice, now the real chapter 3 is up!

A blanket of thick white snow covered everything. The whole landscape looked like it had been wrapped in a frozen cloud. It was beautiful in its pale simplicity, but also frightening.

Quentyn looked at it through the window, mesmerized. He sat in the bed he shared with his wife, wrapped in a fur blanket, and looked at the transformed world outside. Never before had he seen snow like that, even after the storm it had melted away in the morning.

The bench where Sansa had kissed him appeared to be completely buried in snow. He wouldn’t be able to go out there today. They hadn’t addressed the kiss since it happened. But Quentyn still sat there every day, in the hopes that she would join him again.

His wife had to come to him, not the other way around, he could sense that. If Sansa felt like he chased her she would run away and hide from him forever.

He heard the door behind him open and turned around to see his wife walk in the door. Sansa was an early riser while Quentyn lounged in bed for as long as he could every morning. It was not like he had any obligations anyway, and the bed was warm.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Don’t you have meetings with the Northern lords all day?”

“The lords couldn’t get here today,” she replied. “The roads are snowed in.”

Sansa sat down beside her husband on the bed. Close but not too close.

“Everything is snowed in,” Quentyn said as he looked at the landscape outside in disbelief.

“Do you want to go out there?” she asked with amusement in her voice.

“Can we even do that? The snow looks like it would swallow us whole…”

“I think we’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with snow before, dear husband. It won’t kill you.”

“Then I will trust you, dear wife,” Quentyn replied with a smile. He’d go anywhere with her, as long as she called him husband.

***  
Sansa couldn’t help but laugh at her husband as he walked outside in his winter attire. The ridiculous bearskin parka and mittens were now paired with a pair of equally ridiculous boots, that went all the way up to his knees.

“Are those Tormund’s too?” she asked. “You look like a wild animal.”

Sansa herself had only thrown on a grey wool coat with fur trimmings over her dress. On her hands were black leather gloves. She had endured far more bitter winter days than this.

Quentyn nodded and looked down towards his legs. “My feet get cold easily,” he said. “I figured this would protect them.”

She strode confidently through the knee-high snow. Her husband followed, not as confidently.

“What do we do now?” Quentyn asked as he stumbled through the endless whiteness. Clumps of snow had attached to his stupid boots which made him lose his balance. He fell on his back into the snow.

Sansa turned around and looked at her pitiful husband. “This,” she said with a glint in her eyes as she pulled her gloves off. Then she started to pelt her poor husband with snowballs.

Despite the rain of snowballs Quentyn managed to get up. Sansa paused her attack on him for a while as he put his mitten-clad hands down in the snow to try to form a ball. The endeavor failed. The snow just slipped out of his hands.

“Take off the mittens,” she said. “You need to form it with your hands.”

Reluctantly Quentyn obliged and pulled the mittens off. He seemed skeptical of having his bare hands touch the snow. But eventually he grabbed a handful of it and squeezed it into a ball.

He threw the ball at her. His wife moved to the side to escape. “You have to try better than that,” she said.

One more. And another. Quentyn moved closer as he threw them. As one hit Sansa she bent down and grabbed a handful of snow in both her hands. Then she threw it towards her husband, making the whole world around them white and sparkling.

Quentyn stopped for a moment, looking mesmerized as the snow attached to his hair and his coat. Sansa took the opportunity to move in on him. With another handful of snow, she walked up to him and threw it over his head which made the cold droplets slither down under his jacket.

Her husband made a disgruntled sound and squirmed as he tried to get the snow off him. This made him lose his balance and in an attempt to stabilize himself he put his hand on Sansa’s shoulder. 

They both fell into the pillows of snow together. He on top of her.

Sudden terror struck her. The feeling of a male body on top of her brought painful memories back. Memories of a man who had pinned her down and destroyed her. 

Her husband must have seen the terror in her eyes because he immediately rolled off her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

Sansa took a deep breath to try to chase the painful memories away. “It’s all right,” she said. “I know you’re not... him.”

“I’m not,” he said. ”Whoever he was. I would never hurt you.”

There was a sudden warmth against her hand. Skin against skin. Pulse against pulse. His hand enveloping hers.

She let it stay there. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t flee.

Instead, she looked over at her husband. Quentyn looked anxious. Petrified that the small step towards her would be countered with denial.

But Sansa felt no urge to run. She felt an urge to move closer. She rolled over on her side and gazed at her husband. Sparkling snow crystals contrasted against his black hair. Melted snow made his tan skin glisten. His eyes met hers. Anxiousness replaced with anticipation.

His hand was still wrapped around hers. None of them moved. Locked in a feeling and moment.

“Quentyn,” she said to break the silence. “My husband.”

“Yes, my wife,” he replied.

“You can kiss me if you want.”

***

Quentyn did want to kiss her. He wanted it more than anything. But he wanted to do it correctly. Not rushed and not harsh.

In one slow movement, he moved towards her until they laid opposite in the cold snow. Their faces only inches apart.

He slowly stretched his hand towards Sansa and stroked a few locks of copper-colored hair out of her face before letting his shivering hand rest on her pale chin.

Then he leaned in.

Quentyn Martell had kissed many women in his life. He had kissed them to forget his responsibilities. He had kissed them to drown his sorrows. He had kissed them to hide his fears. But he had never been nervous about a kiss before.

This time he was. When he pressed his lips against Sansa’s his heart pounded heavily. When he felt her responding to his movements it took his breath away. And when he made his lips leave hers he felt a knot in his stomach. 

His lips lingered an inch from hers as he waited for her response. Would she run away again?

Sansa didn’t run away. Instead, she closed the gap again. Her lips against his lips. Her tongue grazing his. Over and over.

Her lips felt like snow. Ice cold and featherlight.

Quentyn no longer feared the cold. He embraced it. He welcomed it. It felt like home.


	4. Thrillride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Quentyn go sledding. 
> 
> I guess that's it...

Sansa and Quentyn stood atop the highest hill of the area and looked down. A pale sheet of snow covered the valley below. The black branches of bare trees and bushes contrasted against the white. Winterfell could be spotted behind them but in front of them were no signs of civilization. Just snow and wilderness.

As they breathed puffy clouds appeared as the hot air met the cold air outside. Sansa could see Quentyn look at the puffs with confusion.

Clasped tightly to his chest was a sled, which was the reason they had traversed all this way.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Quentyn asked with a skeptical look as he put the sled down on the ground.

“You told me you used to slide down sand dunes on a board back in Dorne,” she replied. “Sand is harder than snow. If that was safe enough for you, this should be too.”

Her husband couldn’t dispute that statement. But there was still a skeptical look in his eyes.

“Yeah, Trystane and I used to ride out into the desert together to play around,” he said. “The royal guards tried to stop us because they thought we would kill ourselves on the dunes but we snuck out anyway.”

A sad look fell over his eyes as he mentioned his brother. Trystane was gone. Stabbed in the back by his cousins.

“I sledded all the time with my siblings growing up,” Sansa said and patted her husband on the shoulder. “Jon and Robb helped us carry the sleds so that me and Arya could race down. Bran and Rickon were too young to join us, my mother wouldn’t let them.”.

Her words trailed off as she talked about her siblings. Robb was gone, and Rickon was gone. The oldest and the youngest. One stabbed through the heart and one shot with an arrow through the back. And the rest of them were scattered and scarred.

Quentyn leaned over and kissed the top of her head. Sansa didn’t flinch or push her husband away. Instead, she pulled him close for a light embrace. Signs of affection had become part of their relationship. A few kisses here and there, embraces when needed, light squeezes of the hand. That was all, but to her, it was a lot. It was more than she thought she would ever have or desire.

“I wish I could have met them,” he said.

“You would have liked them,” she replied. “I wish I could have met your brother.”

“You wouldn’t have liked him. Trystane was a brat.”

Quentyn smiled but his smile was tinged with sadness. Of course, he missed his bratty younger brother.

Sansa had quarreled plenty with her siblings too, but she still missed them. The ones who were gone forever and the ones who were far away.

“I always wondered,” she said. “Why was Trystane the one betrothed to Myrcella, and not you? It would have made more sense for it to be the older brother.”

“My father was saving me for another marriage, with a queen.”

“A queen?”

“The Dragon Queen. He knew she was coming to Westeros and intended to send me with a marriage proposal once she arrived.”

“I’m happy it never came to that. Her dragons would have burnt you to a crisp on arrival.”  
“And instead I’m here freezing my ash off, about to risk my life on this icy hill. But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I married the right queen.”

Quentyn squeezed Sansa’s hand lightly. Then he put the sled down on the ground. It was time.

***

The valley below looked a lot like the sand dunes Quentyn and his brother had played on back in Dorne. White and smooth. But while the desert shimmered in tones of yellow and brown this place was only tinted in white and blue. Miles after miles of snowy hills with an endless clear sky above. His eyes hurt as the sunlight reflected on the white surface and almost blinded him.

He sat down on the sled. It seemed so rickety under him. Like it would break during the journey down.

“Move over,” his wife said. “I need to fit too.”

Quentyn moved back on the sled and Sansa sat down in front of him. She seemed too preoccupied thinking about sledding to think about how close they were. But Quentyn definitely noticed. Her hair was in his face. Her back was against his chest. Her hips were against his pelvis. He was glad his clothes were thick, in case his body decided to have certain reactions to the intimate position.

“Hold on to me,” she said. 

Quentyn did as he was told and wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist.

Using her feet, Sansa slid the sled up to the edge of the hill. Then she pushed off. 

The speed was exhilarating. Quentyn could feel it in his whole body. His stomach filled with a weird nausea that was almost pleasurable. It was like his insides turned inside-out but in a good way.

Although, he wasn’t entirely sure if the feeling was caused by the thrill of the rid, our by the proximity to his wife.

The speed kept increasing. The bushes and hills on the sides turned into a blur. The whole world turned fuzzy. Because the only thing that mattered was her. Her and her laughter.

Because Sansa laughed. It was the first time Quentyn had heard her do so. And it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. Like water pouring between ice sheets. Like bird song in early spring. Like flower buds finally unfolding.

Sansa kept laughing as they continued down the hill, still at full speed. Quentyn became worried that they were about to crash into the trees below and put down his feet to stop the impact. Which made the sled twist and turn with jerky motions until it finally tilted over and made them both fall into the snow.

This time, his wife fell on top of him. And this time she didn’t stiffen in horror.

Instead, Sansa kept laughing. And she pressed her lips against his. Spontaneous and passionately. A warm kiss with hints of cold snow.

The ground under Quentyn was frozen. Snow had made its way under his jacket. His stomach was still in turmoil.

None of that mattered. Nothing mattered except her laughter and her lips against his.

“Let’s do that again;” he said.

“As you wish,” she said and pressed her lips against his again. The fluttering feeling his stomach came back.

“I meant the sledding,” he replied once his lips were free again.

“We can do that too,” Sansa said and gave her husband another quick kiss before getting up. “You get to carry the sled, husband.”

As his wife walked away from him Quentyn stayed in the snow for a moment and admired her. Her steps danced through the snow. Her red hair twirled and contrasted brightly against the snow. Her laughter echoed between the snowy hills,

He saw her now. The girl she had once been. Before everything. He loved that girl. And he loved the queen she had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are all the chapters I currently have written, so there might be a bit longer until the next one. But I will try to publish about once a week.
> 
> And if you want to know how the marriage deal between Sansa and Quentyn originally came to be, check out my works on Wattpad (my username there is lisa_london_). It's really just a small part of my epic Gendry/Meera trilogy though (yep, that's a ship that exists in my mind).


	5. What is dead may never die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa stands by Theon's grave. Quentyn joins her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thrilled that so many people seem to like this story, but unfortunately, I will have to take a break from updating it for a little while as I have other stories I want to finish before I give this one my full attention.
> 
> So if you want more of my stories check out The Stag and The Frog that's also on here (it's being updated regularly since I already got about 1,5 book written of it). It's a Gendry/Meera romance set in the same universe as this story. All my stories are also on Wattpad (under the username lisa_london_).

The statue in the crypts didn’t even look like him. But it was as close to him as Sansa could get, so she kneeled at the foot of it and let the tears fall.

Not even his bones were left. There was nothing in his coffin. His body had burned with the rest after the great battle. So there was nothing left of him in this world for her to hold onto.

But she still held on to his memory. She always would. Even when no one else in this world would remember him.

She would whisper his name on her death bed. His name had been Theon Greyjoy. And he had been a good man.

In her hand, she held a bouquet of snowdrops. She had dug the flowers out from under the snow with her bare hands. They were red and aching from the cold now. Of course, she could have worn gloves but she wanted her hands to hurt. She wanted to suffer for him.

She placed the flowers on the foot of Theon’s statue. “For you,” she said. “You always loved it when they started to bloom because that meant it was getting warmer and you could soon go out hunting with your bow.”

***

Quentyn couldn’t find his wife. She never came to their bedroom that night. Once darkness fell he decided to look for her.

As he ventured out of the bedroom one of the maids walked by and he stopped her to ask if she knew where the queen was.

“In the crypts, I believe,” she said and pointed towards the entrance to them.

So Quentyn made his way down under the castle of Winterfell. Through slippery rock tunnels with mossy walls and a damp smell. It was dark and eerily quiet. The only sound heard was the scampering of mice in the corners.

A few lights flickered in the darkness. Candles burning in front of the coffins that held the dead.

Quentyn walked by statue after statue of people hadn’t known. That he would never know. His wife’s family.

Lyanna Stark. Ned Stark. Catelyn Stark. Robb Stark. Rickon Stark.

He read the names and wondered who they had been. If they would have liked him. He suspected Sansa’s father Ned would not have approved of him. That he wouldn’t have been manly and rough enough for him. A father wanted his daughter to marry someone who could protect his daughter, and Quentyn wasn’t sure he could. But Sansa could probably protect him.

In the furthest corner, he found his wife. Kneeling by a newly erected statue. She acknowledged his presence only with a glance as he walked up behind her.

Quentyn read the name on the base. Not a Stark, but a Greyjoy.

The Greyjoys were seafaring people belonging on the Iron Islands. Quentyn knew that. So why was this Greyjoy buried here?

Fresh flowers laid beside the name. Sansa must have put them there. Quentyn kneeled down beside her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Who was he?” he asked.

“My light,” she replied. “When there was only darkness Theon was my light. He saved me. I was broken, and he was broken as well. Even more than me. But he still found the strength to save me. We took the leap together and ran. I’ve been running ever since. But Theon stopped running. Perhaps that’s better.”

Quentyn nodded and patted her hair lightly. “Would you have married him?” he asked. “If he had lived.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I didn’t love him like that. I loved him like a brother. I’ve never loved anyone like that before. I thought I loved Joffrey once, but I was just young and foolish. I thought I knew what love was but I had no clue. I knew nothing then. ”

Before. A curious word. Perhaps just a slip. But a slip could still mean something.

“I’ve never loved anyone either,” he said. “Not before. I thought I did once. When I was a ward at Yronwood. I was obsessed with Ynys Yronwood, the oldest daughter of the lord. But I didn’t love her, I realize that now. It was just childish infatuation.”

Quentyn said the same word too and waited for Sansa to react. But she didn’t seem to notice.

“What happened to her?” Sansa asked.

“Ynys got married,” he said. “She’s had a couple of children. She’s happy, I think. Probably happier than she would have been with me. I told my father that I wanted to marry her and he laughed at me. Because I was a prince and he had bigger plans for me. I was intended for a queen.”

“Theon was a ward here at Winterfell, just like you were at Yronwood. I think he never really felt like he belonged. And that made him do things that he shouldn’t. Awful things.”

“I recognize that feeling. You feel like you have two families, but you don’t truly belong in either of them. You have to prove yourself to both of them, but you’re never enough.”

“He was enough,” she said. “He was always enough. I wish had told him that.”

“I’m sure he knew.”

Quentyn patted her hand lightly and readied to get up. Sansa squeezed his hand and pulled him back down again.

“You’re enough, Quentyn,” she said. “I can’t tell him, but I can tell you.”

The words surprised him. Words he had always wanted to hear from his father but never did. “Thank you,” he just said, thankful that the darkness hid the tears falling from his eyes.

Suddenly Sansa’s arms embraced him and held him tightly. Like she never wanted to let go. Quentyn put his hands around her back as well. It was the first time he had dared to hold her like that. To hold her and not let go. 

Tears dripped down on his shoulder. Sansa didn’t seem like the kind who cried. Rather she seemed like she had already used up all her tears. But apparently she had some left. And she gave them to him.

***  
Sansa released her grip on her husband and looked at him for a moment. An audacious thought struck her. Something she had never considered before.

“If I was to… ever have a son,” she said cautiously. “I do need an heir, after all. Then I’d want to name him after Theon.”

It was of course true that she needed an heir. But having one would requiring partaking in certain activities that she wasn’t ready for yet. That she wasn’t sure she would ever be ready for. That she wasn’t even sure that she would be able to partake in after what Ramsey did to her. 

But still, someone needed to carry forward the Stark name. The name of her father.

Bran wouldn’t be able to have children. Arya had chosen another life. Jon wasn’t a Stark by name. So Sansa was the only one who could.

“I’d want that too,” her husband replied. “Theon saved you. I’ll forever be grateful to him for that. And in that way, he would live on.”

Sansa nodded and got up. She placed her hand on the shoulder of the statue and leaned in to place a kiss on the cold and rough stone surface of its forehead. It didn’t feel like him. Theon had been warm and alive.

“What is dead will never die,” she whispered.


End file.
